


personal concerns

by taizi



Series: full circle [5]
Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, dont know if im gearing up to kitanishi in this series or not, only time will tell, satoru makes bad choices but hes doing his best ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-10-28 22:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10840485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taizi/pseuds/taizi
Summary: “This is probably a stupid decision,” Satoru informs the yokai cheerfully, leading the way forward when the pedestrian crossing light turns green. “But if you remind me of him, you can't be all bad, can you?”





	1. Chapter 1

****“Right there,” Satoru says, feeling a little rude as he points straight at the ayakashi shuffling away toward the opposite side of the park. “You don't see it?”

Taki is squinting, face screwed up in concentration. Her hands are balled into fists in her lap.

“Only sort of. Its edges are all vague. There isn't really a shape to it.”

“Same here,” Tanuma says. “It's more like a blurry shadow than anything else. But my head doesn't hurt, even with it nearby, which is already progress.”

Satoru stares at them for a long moment, then looks back toward the spirit. It has a _distinctive_ shape, long and skeletal with arms that hang so low its tapered fingers brush the ground with each step. It moves stooped over—as tall as it is, Satoru thinks its height would be alarming should it decide to straighten its spine. It seems a little anxious to get away from their prying eyes, head ducked and slooping shoulders bunched.

He doesn't really blame it. The ferocity of Taki and Tanuma's stares would probably make _anyone_ uncomfortable.

“How come?” Satoru says faintly. “I can see it just fine, and you two have the same circle as me.”

He tugs up the sleeve of his hoodie, bearing the proud circle sitting in bright green marker on his inner forearm, and compares it to the diagram on Tanuma's arm. It's a perfect match.

“This isn't a science, Nishimura,” Taki says without heat, plucking at her skirt and rearranging her folded ankles. She looks very business-like all of a sudden, very professional, like she knows exactly what she's talking about. Satoru finds himself listening more closely as she goes on, “It's much closer to magic, really, as silly as that sounds. But for all we know, this variation of the circle only works for one, and _you're_ the one who found it.”

“Sorry,” he says automatically, and she swats him on the shoulder.

“It's hardly your fault. Like I just said, we don't really know what we're doing here. The best we can do is puzzle along.”

She puts out her hand expectantly, and he gives her his. Her fingers close around his wrist and tilt his arm a bit to put his circle in better light.

“I think it might have something to do with your handwriting, maybe. See, the way you draw this character here is different than the way I do it.” She traces the diagram with a fingertip, brow furrowed in thought. “I start from the top and go down, and it looks like you went from the bottom up. I've read that some people believe our handwriting is as unique as our fingerprints.”

“Is that really that important?” Tanuma asks, leaning in from Satoru's other side. Satoru's arm feels like a specimen on display at a super hands-on museum. It's a little uncomfortable, but he can deal. “It's such a small thing.”

“It's worth looking into,” Taki decides. “I can go through grandpa's library again tonight.”

Her hand moves, and suddenly her fingers are wrapped warmly around Satoru's. Her smile lights up her whole face.

“This is fun,” she admits. “It's like we're solving a mystery together that we didn't even know was a mystery.”

“And until we get it figured out, it seems like we can borrow Satoru's circle,” Tanuma adds. He's smiling, too, Satoru can tell from the way his words come out. “Kind of like borrowing someone else's prescription glasses.”

Satoru watches the spirit pause politely at the sidewalk to let a little family go by. Two women and two little boys are walking a dog, and the dog pauses to look up at the spirit, head tilted to one side. It stays there until the length of its lead goes taut, and then it turns to catch up to the boys on the other end of the leash with a few energetic bounds.

The ayakashi watches it go with blind white eyes. One hand is half-extended, as though it had been thinking of petting the puppy, but hadn't quite worked up the nerve. It curls the appendage back in and continues on its way.

Satoru watches it take care to move around humans without disturbing them, slowly turning a corner at the end of the street and disappearing from sight. Headed towards a busier neighborhood, Satoru thinks, with a faint edge of concern. Foot traffic is a lot heavier there, especially at this time of day.

“Nishimura?” Tanuma says, nudging his shoulder. He's looking at Satoru the way he looks at Natsume when he thinks there's trouble waiting for him around the corner. Satoru isn't sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. “You were watching that yokai, weren't you? Was it doing something dangerous?”

“Oh, no, it was cool,” Satoru says quickly. “It just, looks like it doesn't do too well in crowds.”

His two companions give him twin versions of a patiently uncomprehending expression. Satoru rubs the back of his head and changes the subject.

“Anyway. Do you think me and Tanuma could help you look through your grandpa's books? It'd probably go a lot faster if we all put our heads together.”

“That'd be great!” Taki claps her hands together. “We should meet up sometime this weekend! I'll text you when I know the house will be free.”

They say their goodbyes, and Satoru waves until they're both out of sight. Then he turns in roughly the opposite direction of his house and takes off after the shuffling yokai. He's not as good at weaving through the crowd as it was, bumping shoulders with strangers a few times, but he doesn't knock anyone over at least.

It only had a few minutes' headstart, and with as slow as it moves, Satoru catches up in half as much time. The spirit is stuck at an intersection, hovering fretfully at the curb of a busy street. It looks like its ringing its hands.

Satoru crosses the last few feet between them, shoving his hands into his pockets. Ignoring the chills that run down his spine, as well as that little voice in the back of his mind that sounds like Kitamoto's asking _“what the heck are you doing?”_ because he doesn't think this spirit is one of those _mean_ spirits. It wanted to pet the puppy earlier, and it couldn't, and now it's just trying to get home, and it can't.

“So,” he says, more to the ground than to his inhuman companion—it's still pretty creepy-looking, despite everything. “I take it you don't get out much.”

It doesn't have a face that lends itself well to expression, but Satoru can tell its startled. It goes still abruptly, and cranes its head around to stare at him from hardly an arms length away. Yokai or not, its mannerisms are familiar. Something about its round white eyes reminds Satoru of Natsume, and all the times he's been surprised by the smallest acts of kindness—even from where he's _supposed_ to get it, from his friends and the people who love him.

“This is probably a bad decision,” he informs it cheerfully, leading the way when the pedestrian crossing light turns green. “But if you remind me of him, you can't be all bad, can you?”

The yokai doesn't answer him. It doesn't really make a sound at all. Even its shuffled footsteps are silent, while Satoru crunches obnoxiously through dead leaves. He can feel the spirit's sightless eyes boring into the side of his head, and does his best to pretend it's not incredibly off-putting.

They walk almost the length of town; past the river and the lotus fields, and up in the direction of the mountain; following the treeline to the denser part of the forest. Satoru's never been here with one of his circles before, and he's on edge almost the second he steps onto the worn dirt path.

There's a lot of them here. Up ahead, something with red eyes peeks out from behind a line of crooked concrete lanterns. Satoru stops in his tracks.

“Well,” he says lamely, to the ayakashi hovering directly behind him, “I think you can take it from here.”

He manages most of a step before he's hauled back by a hard yank on his wrist. Those tapered fingers, the ones that had curled harmless inches away from a small dog, are biting into his skin with a grip like unyielding steel. It looms above him, inch after inch after inch, until Satoru is looking all the way up at something tall and terrifying and not in the least bit like anyone he knows.

Definitely a bad decision. Bad, bad, _bad_ decision.

“Let go!” he yells, and wrenches at his arm. The yokai peels away from him, skittering back a few steps at Satoru's sudden shout, and Satoru doesn't waste time turning tail and running like his life depended on it.

His lungs are heaving as he pelts down the road back into town. His heart is in his throat. He doesn't stop shaking until he's halfway home, and even then he doesn't want anything but to go to Kitamoto's apartment and fall into his best friend's arms and hug the breath out of him until this terror recedes into something he can deal with—

But he can't do that. Kitamoto would want to know what happened—Kitamoto would _demand_ to know what happened—and Satoru isn't ready to betray Natsume's trust in such a big way.

So he walks up to his house on unsteady feet. His wrist is burning. He can't bring himself to look at it. It hurts when he pushes the gate open.

Kiyoshi is waiting in the entrance hall when Satoru comes through the front door. He manages to restrain himself for a full twelve seconds before he starts the interrogation.

“Where were you?” Kiyoshi asks, arms crossed. “You're later than you said you'd be, mom was getting annoyed.”

He tries to look impassive but really he just looks annoyed. It's familiar, and somehow, oddly comforting. Satoru sits in the genkan to fight his sneakers off, and not at all because his legs are still shaky.

“Mom's _always_ annoyed,” he says, but his voice drops to half its normal volume, because he has no idea where she is and he doesn't want to start a fight. He's all but whispering when he adds, “Tell me something I _don't_ know.”

Kiyoshi notices. Deadpan, he says, “She's out getting groceries. You're lucky I covered for you.”

Sagging with an exaggerated sigh of relief, Satoru tilts a winning smile his brother's way.

“ _Anyway_ , I'm late 'cause I was helping a friend get home. Sort of underestimated how far away they lived, that's all.”

The excuse rolls easily off his tongue, and it's even mostly the truth. If by 'friend' he meant 'freaky ayakashi' and by 'home' he meant 'random spot in the forest, because he was _stupid_ enough to follow it to the forest _._ ' But no one's _that_ interested in the details. He'll keep them to himself.

Kiyoshi studies him closely for a minute with a narrow gaze—and maybe Satoru's circle has made him more perceptive in general, even to things outside the spiritual realm, because he can't help noticing the dark circles under his brother's eyes; how pale he looks in the warm lighting of their entrance hall.

“Have you been sleeping?” Satoru blurts without thinking. “You can stop studying long enough to _sleep,_ nii-san. Those books won't run away without you.”

Kiyoshi looks taken aback, for all of a moment, and when the surprise fades his face has softened. Just a little bit. Just a little more like the big brother Satoru used to be close to.

“You're one to talk,” he says, and his voice has gentled, too. “You think I haven't noticed how tired you are every morning? What do you do all night if you're not sleeping?”

That backfired beautifully.

Satoru steps up into the hall beside Kiyoshi and past him, quickly, because Kiyoshi is way too smart for his own good and can read Satoru like a book. Just like everyone else who knows him can.

(So maybe it's not a _them_ thing, maybe it's a _him_ thing. He should probably work on that.)

“I'm not an old man like _you_ are,” he taunts, “and I definitely don't need as much beauty rest.”

Kiyoshi smacks him, and Satoru squawks indignantly, but they drift upstairs together and Satoru follows Kiyoshi into his bedroom instead of shutting himself up in his own. Shoving some books on the bed to one side, Satoru takes a seat in their place with an unapologetic flop.

“Can you take a break from work for a minute?” he asks, fishing out his phone. “I wanna show you a video.”

His brother rolls his eyes, but moves another pile of stuff out of the way to sit next to him. Satoru finds the link Tsuji sent him earlier, glad he has something on hand.

One video will turn into five if he's lucky, and Kiyoshi will be a small world away from his studies; at least for as long as it takes mom to make dinner.

Satoru should do this for him more often than he does. Kiyoshi has to carry their parents' heavy expectations all on his own; the least Satoru could do is make him take a break every once in awhile.

“Is your wrist okay?” Kiyoshi asks abruptly, a quarter of an hour later, while their fourth video is buffering. He's looking down at Satoru's lap, where his arm is cradled gingerly on his folded knees. “You haven't put any weight on it since you got home. And you took your shoes off one-handed, too. Let me see it.”

“What are you, a doctor? I'm fine, leave me alone.”

But Kiyoshi rolls his eyes at him, all long-suffering sibling exasperation, and snatches Satoru's elbow before his little brother can backpedal across the bed out of the way. His fingers fold around Satoru's arm the way that ayakashi's did, but they don't hurt. And he's careful as he draws the sleeve of his jacket up, turning Satoru's arm up toward the light.

Satoru's breath catches at the vivid bruising circling his wrist like a grisly manacle, but Kiyoshi doesn't react to it at all. After a moment of careful examination, his brother lets him go with a mild, “You're fine, after all,” and Satoru stares at his hand in something like horrified fascination.

Yokai bruises, he thinks faintly. That makes sense.

Taki and Tanuma are going to _kill_ him.


	2. Chapter 2

Satoru wears a hoodie under his uniform jacket. The weather's cold enough lately that it won't seem weird. The sleeves fall farther than his jacket sleeves do, covering his wrists neatly and with inches to spare.

Kiyoshi gives him an odd look as Satoru leaves in the morning, but it's not really so different, is it?

“A hoodie?” Kitamoto says the second he sees him. “Are you getting sick or something?”

“I'm allowed to get cold,” he replies defensively. “The leaves are so cold they're _dying_. You want me to _die_ , Acchan?”

The childhood nickname garners a few giggles from a few girls passing them by. Kitamoto's face gets a little pink and he scowls, grabbing for him. Satoru ducks his reach nimbly and rushes up the last few steps, waving a cheerful goodbye at the spot in the hall where they part every morning to go to their respective classes.

He makes it about four more steps before he runs straight into Tanuma. _Runs_ straight into him, and staggers back like he just tried his luck bouncing off a brick wall.

“Jeez, what do you eat?” Satoru mutters, rubbing his face.

“Why are you wearing a hoodie?” Tanuma returns. At the look on Satoru's face—and he probably looks as gobsmacked as he feels—Tanuma adds, “You've complained about being hot in your uniform every day this week, multiple times. Did something happen?”

“No,” Satoru says quickly, wondering what the heck he did to get saddled with the most perceptive friends in the world. “I'm just cold today. Ask Acchan.”

After a moment, Tanuma's hard expression cracks and reluctant amusement shines through. “'Acchan'?”

“ _Please_ call him that when you ask, and _please_ tell me what he looked like the second you did.”

Tanuma chuckles as Satoru steps around him, with barely two minutes to get to class on time at this point. He actually _literally_ looks over his shoulder a few times, feeling somewhat hunted, and he's relieved when Taki doesn't pop up from around a corner somewhere and he makes it safely into his classroom.

“Good morning,” Natsume greets him, with that crooked smile that only a handful of people ever get to see, that Satoru earned fair and square _._ A second later, those soft amber eyes sharpen. “Why are you wearing a hoodie?”

“Oh, come  _on_ _._ ”

But after that, it's okay. They stop bugging him. He even gets out of gym by volunteering to be Tsuji's lackey when a harried teacher pulls the class rep out for some errands. And when he and his group head to the roof to eat, a cool wind greets them, and Tanuma says, “Wow, alright. Maybe _I_ should have worn a hoodie.”

“Hah!” Satoru whirls around to jab a finger at Kitamoto. “ _Hah!”_

His friends roll their eyes at him, long-suffering and amused despite themselves, and Satoru waits until they're all occupied with their own lunches to try opening his melon bread with one hand.

It's no big deal, totally not worth worrying about—but his wrist kind of still _really_ _hurts._

“So are the two of you free on Sunday?” Taki asks brightly when they're finished eating, lingering behind with Satoru and Tanuma as Kitamoto and Natsume head downstairs. “To come over and look at grandpa's library with me?”

“Sunday's good for me,” Tanuma replies easily, and Satoru flashes a left-handed thumb's up.

“See you then,” he says cheerfully.

Something outside the window catches his eye as he steps down onto the second floor landing. He's gotten better about not jumping at shadows in the past handful of weeks wearing the circle, so Satoru darts a quick sidelong glance down at the school yard.

And promptly forgets how breathing works, because the yokai from before is standing at the gate.

Okay, Satoru thinks, a little numb with terror, this isn't good.

“—shimura. _Nishimura!_ ”

Gravity goes a little bonkers at the same time fire shoots up his right arm, and Satoru only very barely manages not to cry out. And then he looks down and realizes he almost walked straight off the landing and fell down about twenty stairs, safely suspended by Natsume's hand wrapped around his bruised wrist and little else.

“Oh,” he manages. “Oops.”

“What's gotten into you?” Kitamoto is grinning, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. “You're been zoning out a lot lately.”

Satoru is blinking wetly through the harsh sting as he disentangles himself from Natsume's grip, and prays it isn't entirely obvious that he's wincing as he slides his hand safely back into its pocket.

Preoccupied, he forgets to answer his best friend. He's rescued by Taki, who says, “We're gonna be late for class if we keep dawdling! Let's move it, boys!”

Satoru is stopped by a yank on the back of his jacket. Tanuma and Taki are frowning at him, and Tanuma says, “Meet us after school.”

“And we know where you live,” Taki adds, mostly teasing, partly serious, “so you better show.”

Satoru has visions of the two of them showing up unannounced at his house and unintentionally interrupting Kiyoshi's studying, and his mother's subsequent wrath. Since his friends aren't cowed by monsters or mortal danger, they certainly wouldn't be deterred by Satoru's mom. They would be politely unapologetic the entire time, too, and Satoru's mom would die before she'd give anyone reason to call her a poor host so she'd probably end up inviting them in, and the whole thing would be painfully awkward and awful and Satoru thinks he'd rather deal with the creepy yokai than _that_ whole mess.

“ _Nooo_ , guys, come on.” Satoru doesn't bother trying to keep the whine out of his voice. “I don't know what you're thinking, but stop thinking it. I just—wasn't paying attention. We've _all_ almost fallen down some stairs before, it's nothing to call the school paper about.”

“You forget that we deal with Natsume's deflections on a daily basis,” Taki says. “And he's had a lot more practice at keeping his friends in the dark than you have.”

There's no argument to make there. Satoru decides retreat is the better part of valor, and scoots a careful step back.

Tanuma sweeps a step closer to match it and all but looms over him. He can't help it usually, he's just that tall—but when he remembers to use that height in an argument, it's pretty convincing. Satoru tries very hard not to think of the last thing that loomed over him and meets Tanuma's eyes as steadily as he can.

“It's that yokai, isn't it? The one from the other day. You followed it.”

“I thought it needed help,” Satoru says stupidly.

“What _happened_?” Taki's eyes are bright, like she's about to cry, and Satoru automatically feels terrible for that.

“Nothing! I mean, honestly, _nothing._ I walked with it to the woods, and it—it touched my hand, and then I left.”

Tanuma's dark eyes are heated. “Nishimura, I _swear,_ if that thing did something to you—”

“ _Hey_ ,” Satoru says, waving his hand frantically, “can we keep this conversation audience-friendly for the hallway please? It didn't do anything to me, it's fine.”

“Prove it,” Tanuma says, and holds out his hand. Taki moves to stand next to him, and they aren't budging.

Satoru curls his bad hand in against his center, feeling hunted again. The stinging hasn't let up since Natsume unwittingly grabbed him. He doesn't want anyone else to touch it.

Whatever he looks like is doing something to his friends' expressions in turn. Their stubborn care and almost-anger is fading into worry, and Taki says, “Nishimura?” very carefully, like she's trying not to spook a scared animal.

A hand lands on his shoulder and Satoru jumps, whirling around. Kitamoto is staring at him like he's never seen him before, and his gaze moves from Satoru to the two behind him.

“What's going on?” he asks slowly. “Nishimura, you okay?”

“I'm good,” Satoru replies, too fast. “I also really don't want a detention. So let's all go to class now.”

Kitamoto's eyes drop down to the hand Satoru is holding carefully against his chest, and his mouth twists.

But he lets go and steps away. “If you say so. I'll see you after school.”

“Um,” Satoru sounds weak to his own ears, “I gotta meet up with these two after school. To do a thing. I'll see you later, though!”

Kitamoto hesitates for a moment, eyes moving between his three friends like he's trying to find an answer in the spaces in between them, before he finally musters a smile.

“Yeah, alright.”

He looks tired. Satoru is rooted to the spot as his friend walks away.

“This doesn't feel good,” Satoru says, to no one in particular.

The circle on his shoulder feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. There's a yokai following him, its mark burning and heavy where it sits on his skin. He's lying to pretty much everybody around him, about everything. He just lied to Kitamoto, of all people, and he _knows_ Kitamoto didn't buy it because Kitamoto _never_ does, but he lied _anyway._

He wanted to understand Natsume better, to be there for him, but all he's really doing is drawing a circle around himself and keeping everyone out.

With a sense of looming dread, Satoru wonders if maybe that's a good thing. The things he can see are more and more dangerous the closer they get—he doesn't want them taking a step too far in either direction and snatching up one of these people he loves so much.

He wonders if this is how Natsume feels. If it is, he thinks he understands the other boy a lot better now, after all.

He thinks he can feel those sightless eyes staring at him from the window. There's nothing there when he looks, but he knows better than to trust only what he can see.

Satoru's wrist burns. His heart is heavy.

He's late going back to class. If Tanuma and Taki say goodbye, he doesn't hear them.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had only planned 3 chapters for this part but a _certain someone_ decided to come into play sooner in the series than i had originally anticipated,, so now there’s 4 :’)

It's pretty hard to keep that sense of self-righteousness and moral high ground when one look at the wrist he's been hiding makes two of Satoru's closest friends look like they want to cry.

“ _Nishimura,_ ” Taki says, holding his arm as if it's made of glass. “Does it _hurt_?”

That question feels like a test. They _saw_ him hurting earlier. So Satoru shuffles his feet and mutters grudgingly, “A little bit.”

They're behind the school, in about the same spot Natsume used to eat his lunches by himself. Satoru has to steel himself not to throw a paranoid glance over his shoulder.

He must give himself away somehow, because Tanuma says, “Is it here?”

“It was earlier,” Satoru admits. Better than admitting he's more worried about Natsume popping up right now than the vengeful spirit that stalked him to school. He thinks that might not go over very well. “It didn't come close, though, it just stood by the gate.”

And even though Tanuma is arguably well within his rights to be annoyed or frustrated or even _angry_ at Satoru, for doing stupid things and then stupidly keeping the consequences of those things to himself, he only sighs and moves on.

“My father knows how to make o-fuda. For some reason I've never thought to ask him to make any for me,” reliable Tanuma informs them both, already feeling out a potential solution. “He's coming home tonight, and I'll ask him as soon as he's settled. The talismans work. We used them on the Nitai-sama that came to my house once.”

“The _what_?” Taki demands.

Despite himself, there's a coil of unease working itself loose in the pit of his stomach. Taki has faced a horrifying monster and insurmountable odds with a sense of dogged determination and her head held high, and Tanuma, for all his frailty, is steadfast and unwavering when it comes to the people he cares about. It already feels better, having them back on his side.

That black mood from earlier is peeling its fingers back from its grip on his soul, making his shoulders feel a little lighter with every second. He rubs his chest as that muddy feeling goes, blinking rapidly. He didn't even notice that feeling until now that it's gone.

“Your wrist— _look,_ ” Tanuma says, grabbing Satoru by the elbow. “The marks are fading!”

It definitely isn't as dark as it was this morning, Satoru thinks, surprised. The impressive bruising has faded from immediate-trip-to-the-emergency-room to probably-not-a-broken-bone-maybe, and it feels a little better, too.

“Huh,” he says eloquently, flexing his wrist with caution. “I wonder what that's all about?”

“I don't know, but I don't want to wait until Sunday to figure it out,” Taki says, touching Satoru's shoulder gently. “Tanuma will work on getting those charms, and I'll sneak away into my grandpa's library after dinner tonight. _You_ should go home and get some rest, Nishimura. You look like you could use it.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Kiyoshi usually doesn't care if I fall asleep in his room while he's working. And I always do, once he starts talking about whatever boring stuff he's studying. Maybe I'll nap there for a bit.”

They're circling the building to the front gate, walking at an amiable pace and talking in low voices about how they would make better this situation Satoru landed himself in. Feeling warm, Satoru smiles as he tugs his sleeve back down.

“Maybe we should walk with you,” Tanuma says hesitantly, at the point on the walk home where their routes split. Satoru gives him a slow look. “Hey, _last_ time we left you alone to go home—”

“Fair enough,” Satoru says, raising his hands. “But this time I'm not gonna play crossing guard for the thing, I'm gonna run the second I see it. And it moves pretty slow, I don't think we have to worry about it catching up to me.”

“Well... text one of us when you make it safely, okay?” Taki says, in that reasonable tone it's impossible to argue with. “And I'll text you if I find out anything interesting tonight.”

They part ways in their usual spot, and Satoru waves over his shoulder as he goes until his friends disappear around a corner, out of sight.

When he turns around again, the yokai is there. Off to one side of the street, lingering behind a lampost about a block ahead. Staring with those round white eyes in Satoru's direction. The day is getting darker, throwing stretching shadows across the ground, and Satoru's steps falter.

No big deal, he thinks, steeling himself. You knew it was watching you. You can run faster than it can, so it's no big deal. Just stay cool, keep walking.

But each step brings him closer to the spirit, and a cold sweat breaks out on his neck when he's level with it, only a narrow street-width apart. Satoru keeps walking, facing forward; trying to look as though he hasn't noticed it there, trying not to break into a run. His wrist may as well be on fire.

The yokai still doesn't move, sheltering behind the pole and staring at him as he goes. It takes willpower Satoru didn't even know he had not to look back over his shoulder, to carry on calmly instead.

He's so blindly focused on the mechanical one step right after the other that he runs bodily into someone standing in his way.

“You really _are_ out of it today,” Kitamoto says, catching Satoru by the elbow before he can fall over. “Do you need to go to a doctor or something?”

Satoru stares at him in horror, that earlier, somewhat cooled panic mounting again into something impossible and terrifying. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“I thought I'd come by to see if you were home yet, even if you did pretty much tell me to get lost earlier.”

“I did _not_ tell you to get lost! I just had something to do! And if I _did_ tell you that, it _probably_ would have been for a good reason!”

Kitamoto blinks at his tone, but his grip on Satoru's arm only tightens. “Nishimura—”

Satoru whirls around, heart in his throat. The yokai is in the middle of the street now, staring at him. When he looks back at it, it bends its head to one side at an unnatural angle, like its head is hanging off a broken neck.

Satoru flinches a step back. It matches him with a shuffled step forward.

“We need to go now,” he says carefully, not daring to take his eyes off the thing. He tugs his arm away in slow, deliberate movements, groping through the air behind him for Kitamoto's hand instead. “Right now. Okay? We're gonna just turn around and—”

“Nishimura, what the hell are you—”

Between one moment and the next, the yokai bursts into motion. Skeletal limbs digging into the ground and propelling its emaciated body forward, it moves towards them on all fours like some kind of horror movie monster.

Satoru's mind goes blank, wiped clean by actual, honest terror. His hold on Kitamoto's hand is probably bruising as he scrambles back, pulling his confused friend along behind him without another word, and runs.

Down one street, around a corner at a breakneck pace, down the next. Sprinting as though their lives depend on it, plowing through crowds, cutting through traffic. This small town was a younger Satoru's sprawling playground, he knows it better than some forest monster probably does, and he winds them breathlessly on a nonsensical path home.

He shoves Kitamoto through the door first and slams it shut behind him. Safe here, he thinks. It can't get me here.

Of course, Satoru doesn't know that for sure—but considering the very real possibility that it might burst through the door behind him is just going to give him a panic attack, so he lets himself think _Safe._

Kitamoto is silent beside him, and Satoru doesn't want to risk looking him in the face. They take their shoes off without speaking, and climb the stairs to Satoru's bedroom on the second floor. It's not until the door is closed behind them, and Satoru has paced a careful perimeter (making sure the window and its shutter are closed, too, and the closet is empty) that Kitamoto says, “What the hell, Nishimura?”

He's sitting on the edge of Satoru's bed, staring at him like the short length of the room between them is miles and miles of brand new distance he has no idea how to navigate.

Satoru hates that.

“I know,” he says right away, “I know that was weird, I know—I'm sorry—but it's okay now. I just, uh—needed to get home to—”

Kitamoto says, “You're shaking.”

Satoru looks down at his hands, surprised to find them trembling.

“Are you okay?” his friend says slowly.

Satoru's wrist is burning. He shakes his head.

“Look,” Kitamoto goes on desperately, “if it's something you can't talk about, fine. I don't like it, but I'm not gonna pressure you into breaking a promise. That's the only reason I can think of why you'd be so stubborn about keeping me in the dark, and the only reason why I've left you alone about it for this long. Lately, though, you've been freaking me out. You almost fell down the stairs today, and just now—I don't know _what_ that was.” He runs a hand through his hair, pale-faced and worried. “But I won't ask about any of that if you just _level_ with me. _Are you okay?”_

It's totally futile. Kitamoto has him cornered, whether or not Kitamoto knows it, because Satoru has _never_ been able to lie to him. He can lie to his mom and his brother, and Taki and Tanuma, and even Natsume as it turns out, but not Kitamoto. And the thing is, he doesn't _want_ to.

The adrenaline has faded, leaving Satoru with a trembling, hollow feeling. It fills him up inside with a sense of weighted absence, until he feels both empty and overfull at the same time.

But he's home and safe. It's getting dark outside but his bedroom is well-lit and warm. Kitamoto is a familiar and comforting presence on the other side of the room.

The pain in his wrist fades to a dull ache.

“One sec,” he says absurdly, and pulls out his phone. Kitamoto's expression would be comical if it were the appropriate time to think anything was funny. His trembling fingers need a few tries to get his contact list open, and then he's holding the phone to his ear and counting rings before Taki answers.

“ _Nishimura?”_ It speaks volumes that she immediately jumps straight to concerned that Satoru is calling, but she's trying to play it down. _“Is everything okay? I never got a text.”_

“Um, everything's okay,” he starts, and at the downright dangerous look on Kitamoto's face, he quickly amends, “ _now._ Everything's okay now.”

“ _'Now'? What happened? Was it the—”_

“Yeah, it was. And I ran into Acchan while I was running away. Talk about rotten timing, right?”

“ _Oh.”_ Taki is quiet for a long moment, then asks, “ _Did you tell him?”_

Taking a steadying breath, grip on the phone tightening, Satoru says stoutly, “I'm about to.”

“ _Thank goodness,”_ is the last thing Satoru expects to hear and exactly what Taki sighs in reply. _“You keep so much to yourself even when so much has gone wrong, and it's driving me crazy. You're like Natsume 2.0.”_

“Wait, hold on,” he says, waving a hand for no one's benefit but his own. “You're _okay_ with this? No questions asked? I'm about to break my promise, and you don't even—”

“ _You promised not to tell anyone about_ Natsume,” Taki corrects him gently. When Satoru has no idea what to say to that, standing there stupidly with his phone against his face for a solid six seconds, his friend goes on, _“You can tell Kitamoto about me, too, if you want. We can tell him I found the yokai circle by chance one day in my grandfather's library. It doesn't have to go back to Natsume at all.”_

Satoru kind of wants to cry. He won't, not with Kitamoto watching him, but _still._ “You make it sound so obvious. Like I should have thought of all that already. I thought we were on the same page.”

“ _That's not what I'm saying,”_ Taki says quickly. _“It's only—recently, you've been so different. And today it was almost like there was a shadow hanging over you. You looked at us like we were strangers when we asked to see your arm. I'm scared for you, a little bit. And now that Kitamoto is somewhat involved, it's like—it's like an excuse to tell him, almost? And I'm happy for that excuse. These things you're experiencing are_ your _experiences, to trust to whoever you want. It wouldn't be fair if I had a broken arm but I wasn't allowed to talk about how I broke my arm, just because one of my friends had a broken arm before me and_ they _didn't talk about it.”_ That analogy probably makes sense, but Satoru can't really make sense of it. Taki doesn't give him time to puzzle it out, either. _“Natsume goes through it alone because it's all he knows how to do—or all he_ did _know how to do, for a long time. He didn't have a Kitamoto growing up, you know? I think it would have made a world of difference if he had.”_

That's almost too much for Satoru to unpack in one sitting. He manages to find his voice after a couple tries and asks softly, because this is the whole point and he has to be sure, “So it's okay?”

“ _It's okay.”_

They don't talk for much longer. Taki is understanding to the point of being borderline psychic, and seems to know without being told that Satoru wants to get off the phone. She says goodbye, and bids a cheerful goodbye to Kitamoto, too, and only hangs up after assuring him Kitamoto is more than welcome to come along on Sunday.

Taki is also painfully optimistic.

“So, she sort of made it sound like you won't call me crazy and never talk to me again,” he says, putting his phone on his desk. “I'm not totally convinced that's not exactly what's going to happen in like five minutes, but—”

“Moron,” Kitamoto says, with that fondness-despite-himself that he seems to save for Satoru, and pats the spot next to him on the bed. He still looks worried, but more than that he looks intensely relieved, and Satoru feels like he probably should have told him a long time ago if just to make him feel that much better. “You're stalling.”

“Definitely,” Satoru agrees, fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie.

“Well, remember how we felt when Natsume kept things from us that he would go and tell Tanuma and Taki about, even though we were his friends, too, and we knew him longer? Remember how much that sucked?”

Satoru winces. “Yeah.”

“Yeah. This is kind of how that feels.”

And there isn't much he can say to that except, “Okay.”

Satoru honestly doesn't know if it would be more selfish to exclude Kitamoto at this point, or to bring him even further in. It's dangerous, and he doesn't want any of these walking night terrors anywhere near his friend, but it's not really his call, is it?

Kitamoto isn't going to budge until he gets answers. He watched Satoru have an _episode_ back there and all he did in response was run with him, all the way across town, without stopping to ask questions until they were safely home. He's smarter than Satoru is, more thoughtful and self-aware, for all that he lets himself be dragged into shenanigans without much of a fight. He could handle knowing about all this better than Satoru, probably. He _wants_ to know. And...

And it would make Satoru feel _better_ to tell Kitamoto. He can't shake the idea, as tried and true as it's been for most of his life, that Kitamoto always knows what to do.

“Okay,” Satoru says again, gathering up his courage in both hands and trying not to feel as though he's betraying gentle Natsume's unspoken trust. “Do you remember when I found that drawing of a weird-looking circle?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Kitamoto believes him. Satoru doesn't even have to draw a circle on Kitamoto's arm and point out the ghost that lives in the corner of his bedroom ceiling for Kitamoto to believe him.

“You were scared,” he says plainly. “You can't fake being that scared.”

Satoru lets his breath go in a sigh that deflates his whole body, relieved but not altogether surprised. If Kitamoto didn't believe him, he could rest assured that _no one_ ever would.

“I'm going with you tomorrow,” Kitamoto adds in a tone that books no room for disagreement, and then goes downstairs to ask Satoru's mom if he can stay the night. Satoru's mom likes him—thinks he's a good influence—so it's a guaranteed yes.

Satoru feels a little bad about it. Kitamoto doesn't like being away from his family when he doesn't have to be. They usually have sleepovers at _his_ house.

Still, he's _really glad_ he's not by himself. Even with his parents downstairs and his big brother in the next room, Satoru would have sat awake in his bed with his back to the wall all night, his desk pushed in front of the door and his eyes trained on the window. Terrified to close his eyes and open them to that monster coming inside.

Even so, as grateful as he is to have his best friend's company, there's an anxious pit in the bottom of his stomach as Satoru considers the interrogation he's in for when Kitamoto returns.

But the hard questions he's bracing himself for don't come.

Instead, they have dinner in his room, watching movies on his laptop for hours and getting crumbs in his bed. They catch up on the new chapters of the manga they're following, and argue passionately over the plot and characters just for argument's sake. Shibata pops up on their ridiculously extended group chat with a picture of a cat he found on the way home from his extra curriculars, and Ogata and Tsuji are immediately pelting him with name suggestions—and since Satoru and Kitamoto are _also_ awake at one o'clock in the morning, they join in for awhile. They're weighing the names “Fuku” and “Miruku” when Natsume drops in to say —  _ **really? this is really happening? at 1 a.m.?**_ _—_ and Satoru laughs until he wheezes.

And when his eyes are finally drooping, that earlier fear is long forgotten, and the anxiety is misplaced somewhere too far away to grasp easily. Kitamoto reaches past him to fold the laptop closed and slide it out of the way, and then his arm sort of stays there, draped over Satoru's side like a weighted reminder.

With that, Satoru actually falls asleep when he closes his eyes. Actually sleeps until _morning_ , for what feels like the first time in _ages_.

A year ago, he would never have woken up at seven on his day off from school, but that means he got about six hours of sleep, and that's— _wow._ That's an achievement.

Kitamoto is watching him when he wakes up, eyes sleepless and thoughtful. He looks alert, but he doesn't look tired, and Satoru can't exactly parse if that means he didn't sleep at all or if he just woke up much earlier than Satoru did.

“Breakfast,” Kitamoto says, by-way of good morning. Satoru can relate. “And let's go _out_ to eat. I really don't think I can deal with your mom for a whole meal.”

“You and me both,” Satoru agrees readily, rubbing his eyes.

Satoru falls out of bed and Kitamoto laughs for three minutes at him. Kitamoto roots around in the closet for the clothes he left over last time he was here and changes into them, folding his uniform away into his schoolbag, and Satoru goes over the circle inked onto the front of his shoulder carefully with a felt tip pen before he tugs a hoodie on over his head.

“Alright,” Kitamoto says, steering him toward the door. “We go find food, and then have our confrontation.”

The pit in Satoru's stomach is back. “It doesn't need to be a confrontation.”

“Okay,” Kitamoto agrees too readily, even shrugging his shoulders. Satoru takes a moment to feel sorry for himself.

“I want pancakes,” he says mulishly, dragging his feet as they walk.

Kitamoto gives him an arch look but ultimately decides to humor him, changing route to the only place in town open early enough to serve breakfast instead of the all-hours convenience store they were probably headed to.

“You baby,” Kitamoto says dryly.

“You're paying!”

An hour or so later, they make it to Taki's house. It's usually hard to feel too stressed after wolfing down pancakes and strawberries, but somehow Satoru manages it.

Tanuma doesn't look surprised to see Kitamoto tagging along when the two of them show up. He only smiles by way of greeting and gestures at some of the cushions situated around the low table he's already seated at.

“Guess Taki told you, huh?” Satoru says lamely, trying to make conversation. The attempt doesn't really stick.

Kitamoto is almost visibly bristling. As laid back as he was all morning, he looks ready to pick a fight now. But instead he just sits, and Satoru sits between him and Tanuma, feeling a little squashed by the tension.

Taki comes bustling back in with a tray of tea a handful of minutes later, and Satoru's never been happier to see her in his life.

“Good morning,” he says desperately. She looks sympathetic.

“Good morning! I'm glad you're both here! So,” she continues, getting right to it as she passes around cups, “where should we start?”

“I want to see his arm,” Kitamoto says right away. Satoru wants to sink through the floor, but unfortunately it remains solid underneath him, and Taki only nods.

“I thought you might. I have a circle all drawn up already,” she says, maintaining the tentative peace.

There's a small stack of books on the table already, and she opens the topmost one to draw out a piece of paper folded into quarters. Smoothing it on the tabletop, revealing the yokai circle inked onto the page, she gestures for Satoru's hand.

He gives it, reluctantly. She pulls it closer to her side of the table, until it's suspended over the yokai circle, and Kitamoto swears so colorfully that Tanuma glances over his shoulder reflexively as if to make sure Taki's absent parents aren't swooping through the door.

“What the _hell_? You told me you were hurt, but you didn't say it was this bad!”

His touch doesn't match his tone; he's careful as he takes Satoru's arm out of Taki's hands, and there's so much in his eyes that it's hard to hold his gaze for more than a few seconds at a time.

“It's _not_ that bad,” Satoru says weakly, for what it's worth.

“I don't get it.” Kitamoto all but talks over him, furious. “Why did this happen?”

There's almost— _almost—_ blame in his voice, and it's _almost_ pointed on the two across the table from them like a weapon. Satoru tugs his arm away, knowing that the marks on his wrist fade from their sight once it's back in his lap and away from the circle spread open on the table.

“It's not their fault,” he says pointedly, giving Kitamoto as much of a _look_ as he dares. It's not much of one, and Kitamoto's attitude doesn't soften in the slightest. “It's not, I mean it. I got myself into some trouble. I was stupid. And then I was stupid again and kept quiet about it until they bullied it out of me. Honestly, this is on me.”

“Not all of it,” Tanuma says. He holds Kitamoto's heated glare without flinching, so calm and sensible that shouting at him would probably feel like shouting at a particularly impressive oak tree. “We shouldn't have let the situation get so bad. I'm sorry we made you feel like you were on your own, Nishimura.”

“I'm sorry, too,” Taki says earnestly, and Satoru shakes his head so hard the room blurs together.

“Would you guys _stop,_ this is so dumb,” he says vehemently. “I literally should have said something sooner and I didn't, that's _my_ fault. Acchan, what are you doing?” he adds, totally clueless. “I thought you'd be mad at _me,_ not them.”

“I'm mad at all of you,” Kitamoto says stiffly. Satoru stares at him.

“You bought me _pancakes._ ”

“That doesn't mean anything.” But he's relenting despite himself, some of the angry edges in his face easing out into just plain unhappiness, and his eyes seem to be stuck on Satoru's wrist where the invisible bruises sit. “I just—hate that this happened to you. I hate that you were so scared yesterday. I hate being the last one to know about all of this.”

Satoru twists his hands together. Kitamoto meets his eyes sharply as he's drawing breath to apologize.

“Say you're sorry and I'm never buying you breakfast ever again.”

“But,” Satoru says helplessly, “I _am._ ”

“Yeah, but you're so strung-out and tired-looking that it's literally impossible for me to have an argument with you right now,” Kitamoto tells him shortly. “So save it for later.”

“Wow,” Satoru grumbles. Taki and Tanuma are trading amused looks, and Taki clears her throat.

“So you don't have any questions about the circle?” she prompts him delicately. “Or the things Satoru's been seeing?”

Kitamoto raises an eyebrow. “No? The magic circle your grandpa made lets people see yokai. That sounds pretty cut and dry.”

“Amazing,” Tanuma says faintly. Kitamoto gives him the fisheye, still a little too prickly to be poked fun at.

Taki, ever reliable, carries on before things get heated. Satoru loves her. “In that case, I want to show the three of you what I found in grandpa's library. There were some books in English that I couldn't quite parse—they were a little complicated. But what I _could_ read led me to look in a few other places, and I'm pretty sure—well, mostly sure—that what we're dealing with is a sort of _contagious magic_.”

“Contagious magic?” Tanuma leans forward to look at the notebook Taki flips open. Her notes are meticulous, but she's helpfully highlighted a few areas in bold yellow, and he absorbs her work quickly. “Like—voodoo?”

“I guess so? I mean, the connotations aren't exactly the same, since this is an ayakashi we're dealing with, but I would go so far as to say that the mark on Nishimura's arm is a curse.” Taki flips through pages of one of the books and turns it around for them to see. “The word 'folk' comes up a lot, so I'm guessing this is largely just folklore. It's all written in the hypothetical, for posterity's sake. We don't exactly have a go-to manual for this sort of thing.”

“We should write one,” Satoru says glumly, rubbing his sore wrist. So the creepy bruises are a curse. That's not a huge surprise.

“Wait,” Kitamoto says, hugely surprised, “he's _cursed_?”

“It's not that bad,” Satoru assures him. “It could be way worse, probably.”

Kitamoto ignores him in favor of staring at the blocks of nearly indecipherable text, so transparent for a moment that Satoru can almost _see_ him wishing he paid more attention in English class. Then his eyes dart up to Taki again desperately.

“How do we get rid of it?”

“Well,” she says, rubbing her forehead. “From what I gather, contagious magic is based on the assumption that the two subjects that came in contact with one another—in this case, Nishimura and the yokai—can continue to affect one another even after they've gone separate ways. I'll probably understand more of this once I have a chance to look online.”

“But how do we get _rid_ of it?” Kitamoto stresses.

Taki looks so reluctant to answer that Satoru already knows he's going to hate everything she's about to say. “I don't know? If I had to guess, we'd probably need to find the yokai that cursed him.”

“Nope,” Satoru says immediately. “I'll just have a cursed arm forever, thanks.”

“That's not funny,” Kitamoto snaps, and Satoru jabs a finger at him.

“What's _less_ funny is the idea of walking up to that _monster_ and asking it for a _favor_ ,” he replies hotly. His heart is racing so hard it hurts, and yesterday's terror isn't that hard to sink back into. “Heck no. _No._ And Taki, Tanuma—don't do this behind my back. I know we're all about loopholes here, and I know I'm not one to talk, but we need to promise right here and now that we're not gonna go near that thing. At all. Okay? Or I'm—I don't know, I just—you have to _promise._ ”

Taki pushes her books out of the way and leans across the table to take his hand in both of hers. Her eyes are bright and worried and relentlessly kind. He probably looks pathetic if he's managed to put that expression on her face, but if it works, he'll take it.

“Nishimura, I promise. It's okay, I _promise_ I won't. I can't even see spirits properly, remember? Not unless you draw my circle for me, and even then, only barely.”

“Same here,” Tanuma says, reaching over to bump his arm. “If you're that against it, we'll figure something else out. You have my word, too.”

Kitamoto only glowers, arms folded tightly, but that's probably as good as Satoru's going to get from him.

“In fact,” Taki says brightly, “I think I know someone who might be able to help! We can buy his silence with food,” she adds, as though everything she's saying makes perfect sense. “He has a light that dispels curses and creates barriers. I just didn't know that Nishimura's bruises _were_ a curse until now—but now that I _do,_ I'll ask him right away!”

“Do that,” Satoru says, pressing his palm over his aching chest. “Just do it far away from the creepy yokai. And since my arm hasn't fallen off yet, I think it's safe to sit on this for a little while.”

“That's _not funny,_ ” Kitamoto says again, and pushes him over. Satoru lets him, and sort of scoots around until he can use Tanuma's knee as a convenient pillow. Tanuma huffs a quiet laugh and leaves him there.

Satoru listens to the conversation pick up again around Taki's research, thinking that with every question Kitamoto asks, he's getting more and more deeply involved in a pretty dangerous world. But Satoru still can't help feeling glad he's here.

He tugs his sleeve back and glances at the bruises on his arm. They're darker today, a horror's handprint wrapped around his wrist like an ugly bracelet.

Even though Satoru ran away, that yokai is practically still touching him, with this stupid contagious magic—it might as well still be holding his arm.

He's afraid to think about that too much.

Satoru's phone chooses that moment to chirp, at about the same time everyone else's does, and he fishes it out from his back pocket without bothering to sit up.

It's another picture message from Shibata in the group chat, of the ratty stray he found last night newly transformed into a pretty cream-colored creature with a powder blue collar and long white whiskers.

—  _ **couldn't decide between fuku and miruku so i went with both!**_ _ **☆**_ —

“'Lucky Milk'?” Tanuma says slowly, a world of confusion in his voice.

Satoru makes the mistake of catching Kitamoto's eye, and despite everything else, they both dissolve into laughter.

 


End file.
